


what if i'm happy

by rosesau



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (potentially.... i hope not but if u Know Things thats i dont.. pls look away), Alternate Universe - Road Trip, First Dates, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Meet-Cute, Minor Character Death, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, doctor louis who is adored by all his patients aka my reason to be, except not really idk how to tag this thing honestly, ok i wrote a second part bc peer pressure so here's some more tags, the tags make it look kinda rly heavy but i promise its not but better safe than sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25767838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesau/pseuds/rosesau
Summary: the one where louis reminds harry of home, louis likes the sound of harry's name, and they both like the stars.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 54
Kudos: 195





	1. HARRY

**Author's Note:**

> hiii hello i hope u enjoy this. it's my baby, half of which i wrote by hand and then transferred to a doc in bits bc we got hit by a storm pretty bad and have lost electricity (yes the fic is set in 2020 but im simply choosing to ignore that covid is a thing).
> 
> in real life it's very much real so u better be wearing a mask whenever u go out! stay 6 feet away from ppl!
> 
> title comes from "what if i'm happy" by hardcastle. lemme know what u think, find me on tumblr if u want @raleighritchie! mwah x

_I can think of all the reasons I should try_

_To pick up all the pieces of my life_

_And I know it, there is somebody on the other side of this_

⬥⬦⬥

Two months since he left England and a week since he’s been in this strange place, Harry still can’t pinpoint why this place makes him so restless. Or, more accurately, he can’t figure out what it is he came looking for and why he hasn’t found it. He knows, technically, in vague terms. He knows he came looking for _closure._ He knows he wanted to move on. He knows that the point of this entire trans-Atlantic trip was to just… move on with life. He thought situating himself in a new environment would give him the fresh start he needed, but here he is, two months later — dissatisfied. 

He was supposed to have a moment of clarity. Something to snap him out of this mopey rut. 

Maybe he should’ve listened to his mother when she said, “Running away isn’t going to solve anything, Harry.” 

But turning away from his problems is what he knows best. Confrontation isn’t his strongest suit, even when it’s confronting himself in the mirror. 

The dark sky that blankets Clinton, Connecticut in mid July is dotted with stars. Harry never really paid much attention to the rare occasions when he was taught constellations in school, so he can’t quite make out the shapes. If he wanted, though, he could assign a number to each bright spot and make art by numbers. A starry picture just for him to tuck away in his sorry mind. Part of him wishes he’d brought his camera with him, but he’d assumed it’d be too dark to photograph anything. He could still walk back to the house and grab it, but he doesn’t feel like getting up for it now.

The summer air is welcome against his bare torso as he leans against a boulder. When he walked by here during the day time, he’d stopped for a moment to admire it. Silly, probably, but he’d liked the timeless swirls in the rock. Should’ve taken a picture then. Now, he sits with his back against it, watching the stars slowly blink back at him, holding a silent conversation. The sound of the ocean is comforting in a slightly nauseating way. He’s not close enough to the shore for the water to reach him, but the rhythmic sound of waves gives him something to do. He counts every wave — ten sets of ten — before fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

_See you tomorrow :)_

His thumb hovers over the tiny arrow, conflicted. He doesn’t want to come across too eager, so he goes to exit out of the chat, but instead ends up sending the text. Well, then. Pathetic. He’s texted a complete stranger well past midnight and for what? Maybe he should just fake sick tomorrow and get out of the date. The one yesterday didn’t go well, anyway. 

Feeling just the hint of shame, Harry stands up and walks back to the house barefoot, his shoes held in one hand. The sand is cool now, oddly refreshing against his warm skin. It’s only when he’s mere feet away from the house that his phone buzzes in the pocket of his shorts. He pulls it out to see a single notification on the screen. 

**From Robert:** _Can’t wait x_

Well. At least Harry isn’t the only one still awake. He doesn’t send anything back. Hoping for the best tomorrow without really expecting, he drags himself into the bathroom. There’s sand in his hair and if he stands under the shower for the better part of twenty minutes, no one has to know. 

He has a sinking feeling that he’ll leave Clinton without finding anything. 

⬥⬦⬥

Friday passes slowly. Miserably slowly. The heat in the house is nearly unbearable and the beach isn’t much better. Gemma and Chloe go shopping and they invite Harry to tag along, but he just isn’t up for it. Gemma even offers to pay for Harry’s things, but still. He doesn’t feel in the mood to walk around overly packed shops, not even when his sister is willing to buy stupid things for him. Harry spends half the day in the room that’s temporarily his, but even the air conditioning starts to irritate him. The cold air settles somewhere in the corner of his joints and he hates it. Truly _hates_ it. Eventually, he busies himself with a shower and picks an outfit for his date. 

There aren’t many options. When he was packing for this trip, prospective dates weren’t really on his mind. Now he wishes they had been. Or that he’d brought _something_ that said first date. If he didn’t care about making a good first impression on people, he’d simply go wearing the white tee and white shorts he’s got on at the moment. He rifles through some of the clothes he has: white shirt with obnoxiously neon stripes, embroidered seagreen jacket, black Mickey Mouse pullover, a _very_ bright _very_ expensive yellow shirt Gemma gifted him two years ago, red flared trousers, taupe velvet trousers, sparkly black trousers, bright pink shorts. 

_Ironic how so much of this shit looks so happy when I feel so shit._

Cursing his own craving for impressing others, he decides on a band tee that’s in better shape than what he’s currently wearing. Who doesn’t love a bit of KISS? He pairs it with pale yellow trousers and white vans. After a glance in the mirror, he wraps a red bandana around his head to tame his hair. It’s always a mess when he’s just showered and a complete nightmare when it’s at an awkward length — like right now. He sort of wishes he hadn’t cut it before leaving England, but oh well. Better his hair than other rash decisions. 

He shoots a text to Gemma and arranges an Uber for himself. It would’ve been nice to have access to a car of his own, but it’s a relief not having one, too. What is the fascination with driving on the wrong side of the road? He’d probably wind up with the car around some pole. 

His nerves get the best of him when he’s actually in the car. There’s no point to this date. He’ll be leaving Connecticut in a week, if not earlier. He has absolutely no intention of going on a second date with Robert, so, really, no point. He’s doing this to appease Gemma and that’s it. His fingers make their way to the Twitter app and he types out a tweet before he can overthink it. 

_Dreading it… Gems you’ll pay for this later._

Send tweet. That’s that done. He pockets his phone and stares out at the clear summer sky. In the strangest of ways, it’s different from the sky back home. Maybe it’s simply knowing that he’s in a new place, but even the wisps of clouds seem to drift differently. This trip was supposed to cheer him, rejuvenate him, but he’s homesick for something he can’t have. He doesn’t want to tell Gemma. He’s been pasting on a smile for her, but she’s known him his whole life. She probably already knows he’s still miserable. It makes him feel guilty, makes him want to try harder to be less sad, but how? Try as he might to find it, there isn’t a magic cure to heartbreak. 

He closes his eyes behind the dark sunglasses. 

_Get it together. You only have a few more days here._

By the time he gets to the restaurant, it’s half past four. If Robert is punctual, he won’t be here for another half hour and for that Harry’s grateful. It gives him a chance to have a drink and soothe his nerves a bit. 

He’s been here before. Truthfully, he’s probably been here too often given how little time he has actually been in Clinton. He supposes it’s the margaritas that seal the deal for him. And maybe the bartender he saw the first time — who hasn’t made an appearance since. He was pretty to look at with his disheveled brown hair and his kind blue eyes. Harry only had one drink that time so they’d only exchanged a few words, but there was no missing his accent. 

_Home._

He’d also reminded Harry of someone. There was something so vaguely familiar about his features, but Harry couldn’t put his finger on it. He’s absent once again and Harry ignores the pinge of disappointment that settles in his stomach. The barkeep had been an oddly comforting presence that evening. His voice reminded Harry of England. He wishes to hear it again, but pushes that thought aside. Robert will be here soon. 

As the old pendulum clock on the wall inches closer to the hour mark, Harry moves to one of the tables. Dinner isn’t exactly what he would’ve chosen, but it’s not the worst thing in the world if it’ll placate Gemma’s concern. Dinner and a drink. That should do it. 

But the hour hand eventually moves past 5 o’clock and there’s no sign of Robert anywhere. 

Harry watches the people in the restaurant — the single men at the bar, the elderly couples seated across from each other. A family of seven catches his eye as the mother struggles to keep a toddler in the wooden high chair. The sight brings a smile to Harry’s lips and a part of him wants to go over and help the poor woman. He stays put, though. He doesn’t know them. He watches as one of the older siblings feeds something to the second, calmer toddler. 

Harry realises with a pang just how _alone_ he must look sitting by himself. On a summer evening. 

He pulls out his phone to ask Robert’s whereabouts, but he doesn’t get that far. His screen lights up with a notification from six minutes ago. 

**From Robert:** _Hi Harry, so sorry to do this to you last minute but I got pulled into work. Really sorry, man. It’s an emergency. Maybe next time if it’s meant to be._

Harry could laugh. He could fucking call Gemma and _laugh_ at the absurdity of it all. That’s two of two dates he’s been stood up by — and he didn’t even want them in the first place. He doesn’t know the nature of Robert’s job, so he can’t decide how honest the message is. Doesn’t matter. 

He gets up and makes his way to the bar again, this time to ask for straight vodka. Or he would have, if the bartender from a few days ago didn’t step out of the back right then. Harry suddenly feels very conscious of the self pity that’s surely rolling off of him in waves. 

“Hello again, gorgeous.” The bartender smiles at him with such open interest in his eyes that Harry needs a moment to collect his bearings. 

He certainly doesn’t feel as confident as the other man seems, but he smiles back anyway. “Hello to you, too.” Even as the words come out of his mouth, he hears how _lame_ they sound. How lackluster. 

“Waiting for someone?” 

“Was.” Harry grimaces when the man’s smile slips away. He shakes his head. Fuck Robert. Fuck Bryan from the other day. Harry didn’t want them anyway. “Can I have another margarita?” Fuck the vodka, too. Harry likes the taste of lime on his tongue. 

There’s the barkeep’s striking smile again. “You got it, babes. This one’s on me.” 

And if that’s out of pity, Harry doesn’t really care. He already paid too much for his Uber to get here. 

⬥⬦⬥

Two more drinks later, a young girl skips to the bar and says, “Louis, Mum says we’re off. Are you coming?” 

_Louis._

The name tugs at something far in the recesses of Harry's memory. Harry follows Louis’ eyes to the family that held Harry’s attention earlier. _Louis’ family._

“I’ll be right there, Daze.”

“Daze” bounces off to their table. 

Now that Harry’s made the connection, the resemblance among them is impossible to miss. Same high cheekbones, same cut of the mouth. Louis’ sisters could be the spitting image of their mother. 

“They’re a handful, they are,” Louis says and Harry's attention snaps back to him. “Ernie and Doris should be easier to handle by now, but they’re little terrors.” His mouth says _terror,_ but his eyes say, _There isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for them._

“They’re adorable,” Harry says. And then: “Have a good night.” 

Louis’ eyes land on Harry’s. “Stay here a moment, would you?”

And then he’s off to where his mother is tidying up the little ones’ clothes. Louis speaks to her in hushed tones, but whatever he says makes her look towards the bar. Harry waves awkwardly when her eyes find him and she gives him a warm smile. Then Louis kisses her cheek and leads their way out of the restaurant. With a sigh, Harry drops his head on the cool wood of the bar. 

He shouldn’t have come. He really, really shouldn’t have come. Staying in bed all day would have been better than the embarrassment of being stood up yet again. Damn Gemma. What is he supposed to say to her now? 

_Oh, yeah, the guy you picked for me left me sitting at the bar_ again. _Cheers._

Pathetic. Comically pathetic. 

A gentle touch on his back startles him into sitting upright. 

Louis. With no children in sight. 

“Hi,” he smiles at Harry. 

Harry forces the frown off his mouth. “Hi?” 

The uncertainty in Harry’s voice doesn’t dissuade Louis at all. He simply leans with one elbow on the bar, body turned towards Harry. The warmth in his eyes doesn’t dim for a moment. “Hi,” he says again. “Permission to be brutally honest?”

A trickle of confusion swims down Harry’s spine and he can’t help but raise a brow. What does a stranger have to be brutally honest about? But he says, “Permission granted.” 

“Right, so.” Louis nods, then pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. If Harry’s eyes follow the movement, it’s no one’s business. “I don’t know your name, but I saw you here a few days ago. Came and left alone, but you were obviously waiting for someone.” Oh no. _Oh no, he_ does _pity me._ “Then you came in again the next day and the day after that.” Harry doesn’t need a recount of how pathetic he’s been, so he looks away. Fixates on whatever’s left of his drink. “Now I’m no genius — actually, no, I am. I really am. But no matter. It doesn’t take a genius to piece together that someone ditched you tonight.” _Oh, here we go. Damn you, Gemma._ “I don’t even know your name, yet, but — hell, I’m not even sure if you swing my way. I’ve never rambled like this to get someone’s attention, but may I have yours, darling?” 

_“Not even sure if you swing my way.”_ Again, Harry could laugh. As it is, he’s too stunned by Louis’ thick accent and the accompanying words. 

“Harry,” he says, just a little dazed. “My name is Harry. Harry Styles.”

Louis beams. “Harry Styles,” he repeats. Harry has never heard his name sound so… so warm. He thinks perhaps he likes it. Perhaps he would like to hear it again. “Well, Harry Styles. Whoever stood you up more than once is a right twit. This place’s full of ’em, I swear.” A light pink flush crawls up Louis’ neck and Harry finds himself delighting in it. “What I’m saying is, Harry Styles, how would you like me to accompany you on a date?” 

Harry blinks. Now he feels his own cheeks heating up. He doesn't know Louis, but he’s already proving himself to be much better than what Robert had in store for Harry. And maybe that’s a reason to say no. Maybe that should be enough for him to turn Louis down, because he isn’t here to stay. He isn’t here to make a connection. England awaits him. 

So it’s a shock to him when he says, “I want to go on a drive.”

Louis grins. He holds out a hand to Harry and, after a moment of hesitation, Harry slips his hand in Louis’. 

⬥⬦⬥

Louis drives. 

They eat hamburgers in the car, which Louis pays for because it turns out that he’s close to the owner of the restaurant. 

“I’ve known Gloria for years,” he tells Harry. “She’s been here for as long as I can remember and I like to help her out every once in a while when I’m around.” 

Now that they’ve been here a little while, Harry feels more at ease with Louis. He feels comfortable enough to ask, “You’re not always around?” 

The wind whistles through their hair and Harry hangs one arm out the window. 

Louis shakes his head. “No, I live up in New Haven. Usually come ’round here in the summer, really, when me mum visits. Almost a family tradition at this point.” 

“They don’t live here?”

Harry watches Louis carefully — the way he holds the steering wheel, the way his eyes are trained on the road, the way he glances over at Harry for just a split second. Harry offers him a small smile. The gradually setting sun glints off his hair and makes him golden. “Mum and the lot still live back home in Donny, actually. I’m sure you picked up on the accent.”

That pulls a chuckle out of Harry. “I wondered, yeah.” He doesn’t know if he should ask the follow up question at the tip of his tongue, doesn’t know if it’s his place to. But something about Louis feels… open. He took Harry’s hand so naturally, brought Harry into his car so easily. He showed no reluctance in telling Harry the names of his siblings — Harry isn’t as generous when it comes to strangers and his own sister. He hasn’t yet given Harry any shit about getting stood up one too many times. There’s a kindness that radiates from Louis. Something so purely gentle and _warm_ and Harry feels like he can ask anything. 

So he does. 

“Why don’t you live in Donny anymore?” 

“Well, Harry Styles.” The way Louis says his name is unlike anything Harry has ever heard. He wants to tuck the sound away. “Mum’s got a very dear friend, Angel. Yes, that’s his real name. Angel McElroy. Don’t even,” he warns Harry with a laugh. “I know. But anyway. Angel’s known me mum for ages and ages and when I was about getting ready for uni and such, he offered to pay for it. His wife’s got mad connections at Yale University and Angel said to my mum he’d pay for everything. If I wanted to, of course.” He cuts Louis a gleeful glance. “Reckon he was hoping I might date his daughter or summat, but this was about two years before I’d come out to anyone — even Mum. So it’s not like she could say anything to him.” 

“So he was basically whoring you out in the most classy way possible?” 

Louis throws his head back and laughs. Sunshine washes over him. “Yes, I suppose he was. And I said yes.”

Harry hums. “Yale university, huh? You weren’t joking about being a genius.”

Louis shrugs. “And I’m not humble about it, either. Double major in psychology and molecular biology. I couldn’t waste the opportunity, so I made the best of it. Makes Mum really proud.” 

Everything falls into place, little pieces clicking together. “I know you,” Harry blurts, then corrects himself. “I mean, like. I don’t _know_ you, but I’ve seen you before. Oh my god.” 

At Louis’ silent confusion, Harry pulls out his phone. A few taps on the screen and he scrolls through Zayn’s Instagram feed, searching for the post from several years back. He zooms in on the photo when he finds it, just to be sure it really is Louis. He watches Louis now; windswept hair, a worn charcoal tee with the sleeves cut off, white skinnies with tasteful rips in the knees. A patchwork of tattoos litter his arms. Looking at him, Harry never would have pegged him for a doctor. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

“A few years back, there was a medical conference in New York. My best mate back home’s studying to be a neurosurgeon and he went to it with a supervisor. He met you.” 

Louis gapes at him, then swipes the phone from Harry’s hand in one smooth motion. 

“No fuckin’ way. What a small world.”

“Hey. Focus on the road.” 

“I remember him,” Louis says, head shaking in disbelief. “Zayn-something. He was the only other person from Yorkshire there.” 

That brings a smile to Harry's lips. “He remembered you, too. Told me all about the stunner he’d spent the entire conference with.” 

Harry takes his phone and recalls how animated Zayn had been when he’d recounted his days with Louis. It hadn’t been anything exciting for Harry — they’d been stuck at the conference, after all. But Zayn had gone on about how wonderful Louis was to him. Zayn himself had been one of the youngest people present there and had been bricking himself about everything that could possibly go wrong. Louis apparently had soothed all those concerns. Harry remembers seeing the photo Zayn had posted almost five years ago; the little red heart proves he’d liked it too. He remembers thinking Louis was attractive. But that had been the end of it. Harry hadn't coaxed any information about Louis out of Zayn and he didn’t really think about Louis afterwards. He was just a guy that Zayn had met at a conference in New York. 

And now Harry’s sitting in his car in Clinton, Connecticut. 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Harry tests the full name on his tongue. He likes it. 

Louis looks over with wonder in his eyes. “You remember my surname.” Whether it’s meant to be a question, Harry can’t tell. 

He simply says, “It’s a nice name.” Because it is. 

They fall into a companionable quiet. Harry doesn’t know where Louis is driving to, but the sound of wind rushing past lulls him into a blanket of security. Louis doesn’t ask him any questions and Harry doesn’t really know if he wants to offer up pieces of himself. He doesn’t know what he’d say, so he asks Louis if he can play his music. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s not something he should do on a first date — or the only date, since that’s what this is. But Louis opened himself to Harry and he wants to give something back. He picks a song he knows he shouldn’t. 

He looks out the window, at the trees they leave behind. 

A moment passes. 

Then two.

_I've been doing pretty good since May_

_I don't have that weight hanging on my shoulders_

_Now even when those records play_

_Doesn't hurt the same_

_Hardest part is over_

_I can think of all the reasons I should try_

_To pick up all the pieces of my life_

_And I know it, there is somebody on the other side of this_

A gentle caress across his knuckles. 

Louis folds their hands together. Harry lets him. 

He doesn’t look at their hands. He doesn’t look at Louis. Blinks away the tears that well in his eyes and bites his lip to swallow the whimper that bubbles inside. 

_Not anymore. I’m done crying._

He squeezes Louis’ hand and sends up a silent thank you to the skies for rescuing him from Robert. 

⬥⬦⬥

Harry doesn’t check his phone, but he’d guess it's some time past eight when Louis parks the car somewhere near the beach. He can hear the quiet percussion of the waves in the distance. The sky above them is a muted blue, crossing into a grey gradient Harry wishes he could paint. He would if he had the skills. On the horizon, the sun has hidden herself somewhere Harry can’t find. It’s reminiscent of his emotional state for the past few months. 

“How am I doing?”

Louis’ voice startles Harry out of his musings. He looks over at Louis, who’s already eyeing Harry curiously. “Sorry?”

“You know, date wise. How’s your evening turned out?” 

“Oh.” Right. This is a date. Harry gives him a genuine smile, remembering the feeling of his hand in Louis’. “At this moment in time? If the standard is my ideal date? I’d say you’re a solid seven, maybe even close to eight.” 

“If I were a bigger man, I’d take that happily. That’s a pretty damn good rating.” Louis swipes a hand across his forehead, brushing back his hair. “But I’m not a bigger man. I’m very competitive, Harry Styles. Tell me what your ideal date looks like.” 

Harry doesn’t have an ideal date, not anymore. He hasn’t thought about it in so long and he doesn’t know what it looks like now. But Louis is gazing at him with open affection and Harry feels something, too. Something soft and warm in his chest. It’s not something he was expecting to feel tonight. He wants to humour Louis, so he does. 

“For starters, I’d have a devastatingly handsome man to accompany me.” He tries and fails to keep his smile hidden when he makes a show of looking Louis up and down. “I have to say, you’re not bad to look at.” What he means to say is, _I find you incredibly attractive and you’re the first person I’ve wanted to kiss in four months._

“I do take pride in me looks.” 

The sky is the same shade of blue as Louis’ eyes. Now Harry wishes he had his camera so he could capture it. 

“I would like him to wine and dine me, which you’ve already done. The burgers were heavenly.” 

“There’s a reason Gloria’s is always brimming with people. Best of the best.” 

Harry nods. “Of course. Who could ever undermine Gloria.” He pauses. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. A moment later, he says, “It may be too much for a first date with someone you barely know, but right now, I wouldn’t say no to dancing on the beach. Or stargazing. I’ve never really done that properly. I was out on the beach last night and there were so many stars, but I don’t know any constellations and it’s kind of depressing. I’ll be leaving in a few days and I don’t know any constellations. I wouldn’t… if you kissed me, I wouldn’t say no. And I could probably say more, but I don’t know what I like anymore and I don’t really know what you want. So. I’m a little lost in case that hasn’t been painfully obvious.” 

It’s too dark to see Louis’ face clearly, but maybe it’s better that way. Maybe he said too much too soon. 

But then Louis says, “Come walk with me,” and steps out of the car. 

Harry doesn’t really have much choice but to follow. 

Louis parked in an actual car park, so they walk to the beach in silence. Just like before, Louis takes Harry’s hand and Harry lets him. 

They’re not where Harry was last night. In fact, Harry doesn’t think he’s been to this side of the beach before. This must be the privately owned area and Harry wonders if Louis has access to it because of Angel McElroy. He doesn’t ask, though. Louis has already told him enough about himself. 

Almost as if reading his mind, Louis says, “It’s just been me jabbering about myself this whole time. Tell me about yourself, Harry Styles.”

_You owe him at least a little._

“Well.” He swings their hands back and forth. “My name is Harry Styles. I have an older sister named Gemma — you probably saw her at the restaurant with me the other day.”

“Right,” Louis drags the vowel. “The pretty one who could pass for your twin.” 

Harry rolls his eyes even though Louis can’t see. “Yep. That’s the one. I have a Master’s in literature and a fascination with gender studies. I’d like to say I’m a writer, though I’m unemployed at the moment. Thus my presence here.” 

Louis hums contemplatively. 

Harry sees the ocean take shape in the distance. 

There’s no one else here besides them. It’s strangely intimate being the only ones here as the sun disappears entirely and the night sky blankets them. Louis is still holding his hand and it’s — it’s nice. It’s really not a grand gesture. Harry’s held hands with plenty of people. It’s just what happens when he’s as tactile as can be, so hand holding isn’t really a big deal. 

Except then Louis stops walking. Takes both of Harry’s hands in his so they’re standing facing each other. The shadows that fall over Louis’ face make it look so much sharper, defined. Harry would reach out and touch if he wasn’t so mesmerized. He wishes it was a full moon tonight so he could see Louis bathed in moonlight. 

“Okay, Harry Styles with a Master’s in literature.” There’s something about the way Louis says his name. It’s enticing. “We can either let the ocean be our soundtrack or you can pick a real song for us to dance to. And by the time we stop dancing, I’d like to see that ember of sadness in your eyes gone.”

“I’m not sad,” Harry says honestly. Right now, at least, it’s the truth. 

“Your eyes are sad,” Louis says. 

It’s just four words and Louis speaks them so softly, but they cut into Harry like a jagged knife. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Louis shakes his head. “Don’t.” He touches the side of Harry’s face with one hand, fingertips trailing along Harry’s cheekbone. “Don’t apologize. Sadness is human. And I’m not a therapist, but I _am_ a great listener.” 

Harry doesn't want Louis to listen. He doesn’t want to spill his sadness onto the sand. He doesn’t want it to make its way into the ocean. He doesn’t want it to taint Louis. It should stay inside of him until it wilts and rots away. 

With his spare hand on Louis’ waist, Harry tugs him close. “Let the ocean be our song.” 

Louis’ arms wind around Harry’s shoulders and Harry keeps his around Louis’ waist. They don’t dance, exactly, because there’s nothing to dance to, but still. The ocean does become their song. They move in small steps in the sand, swaying gently from side to side. 

Harry closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t want it to, but his mind goes back to Ethan. Try as he might to forget every single thing about the man, Harry just can’t do it. They were building a _life_ together and then it was just Harry in their stupid, _stupid_ apartment and the _stupid_ cups and curtains they’d picked out from vintage shops around town. 

It was supposed to be the two of them. 

Then he cleaved Harry’s heart in two and left both pieces behind. 

Louis lifts his head from Harry’s shoulder and peers up. 

“Am I at eight yet?”

Something inside Harry lightens. “You’re dangerously close to nine.” He tries to smile, but isn’t sure he succeeds. 

Louis pushes up on his toes and presses his lips to Harry’s cheek. “There. Nine.”

And that does the trick. Harry laughs, fighting the blush that blooms across his cheekbones. “You’re awfully confident, Louis Tomlinson.” 

Louis locks his arms around the back of Harry’s neck. “Had to be or I wouldn’t have survived here. A certain level of confidence is required anyway to be a doctor, but when you’re speaking to the makers of tiny humans? You’d better make sure _they_ believe in your confidence or they’d eat you alive. Don’t ever mess with the makers of tiny humans, Harry Styles.”

“You’re a pediatrician.”

“Pediatric surgeon,” Louis corrects him. “Resident, anyway.” 

He fixes little children. As if being a doctor wasn’t noble enough, he saves little children. 

Louis snaps his fingers. “We’re not talking about me, though. It’s your turn. But wait right here, I’ll be right back.” 

Then he jogs towards the sparse houses sitting not too far away. Angel McElroy, for sure. Or it could be Louis’ own property, too, — especially if his family visits him here. Surely being a pediatric surgeon pays enough to cover the cost of a beach house. 

Harry’s in between jobs and his miraculous date saves tiny lives for a living. Figures. 

He walks over to sit on a small rock formation several feet away. Folding his knees up to his chest, he allows himself another moment to think about Ethan. 

_He’s not coming back. He left you and made it very clear he’s not interested in getting back together. And you’re too good to settle for someone who leaves you on a whim. Treat Louis with the same kindness he has shown you and make the best of tonight._

It’s one night with a stranger who reminds Harry of home. Who is unlike Ethan in so many ways. Maybe that’s what he was looking for all along. 

He takes the bandana out of his hair and ties it around his wrist instead. The ocean breeze whistles through his hair and Harry closes his eyes. The nausea that threatens him when he’s at sea now resurfaces again and Harry shoves it back. _Not anymore._ He’s not going to have a second home with Ethan in the Scottish Isles. Not anymore. The sea is not going to have a hold on him. Not anymore. 

It is simply his and Louis’ soundtrack. 

The sea now belongs to Louis. 

⬥⬦⬥

Louis returns with a beach towel. 

He also returns in polka dot shorts — and his shirt has disappeared. 

Right then. 

Harry tries not to gawk and he thanks the cover of darkness for masking the blush that crawls up his neck and leaves the tips of his ears hot. Shorts on a beach is completely appropriate, especially in the July heat. 

When the towel is neatly spread on the sand, almost close enough for the waves to kiss them, Louis offers something to Harry. 

A pair of yellow shorts. 

“They’re not mandatory dress code, but if you feel like changing into something more comfortable… I won’t peek, I promise.” 

This time, Harry’s certain no amount of darkness could hide his furious blush. 

“I’m alright, thank you.” He sounds winded, so he tries for joking. “I’m not putting out on the first date.” 

And Louis laughs. “That’s a damn shame. Now sit down.” 

So Harry does. 

They face the ocean, their knees and elbows touching. Neither of them say anything for a while, just listen to the ocean speak in a different tongue. Harry used to love it. The ocean. The sand between his toes. The wetness of the air on his face. The sheer expanse of the water, far as his eyes could see. The quiet serenity of it all. 

Why should he allow one person to take it away from him?

Louis lays down on his back.

“Lay back, Harry Styles.”

“Confident _and_ bossy.” 

“Babe, haven’t even _begun_ to show you bossy.”

If it were someone else, Harry would probably question why. But it’s Louis and so far they’ve had a nice evening, so Harry does as he’s told. He folds his arms behind his neck, cushioning his head semi-comfortably. He’d close his eyes, but something tells him he’s not supposed to. 

“Now,” Louis says, voice soft as the air around them. “I know fuck all about astronomy and constellations, but I’m going to guide you anyway and you’re going to humour me. Sound good?” 

Harry smiles to himself. “Sounds great.” 

Above them, the stars wink back. 

Louis scoots closer to Harry, their heads touching. It’s ridiculously intimate, it really is, even though he can’t really pinpoint why. Louis lifts one arm and points toward the sky. “See that star right there? The bright lonely one?” Harry nods, even though he has no idea which star Louis means. As if he knows, Louis takes one of Harry’s hands and uses Harry’s index finger to point. “Right there. It’s almost twinkling.” Harry thinks he sees it. Louis moves their hands in a straight line upwards. “Good. Now look straight across from it. See that slightly smaller, slightly dimmer one?” Harry nods. That’s easy enough to spot. “Good! Now look. Keep your eye on that smaller one.” He moves their joined hands in a straight line to the left, this time at an angle. “See this one? And the one right across from this? Here.” He uses their hands to point. Then he moves their hands in a semi-smooth motion, like tracing a diamond. “That’s a gem. Name it.” 

“Hmm.” Harry bites back a smile. “I think I’ll call it The Lou.” 

He hears it when Louis’ breath catches. 

“First date and you’re naming stars after me?” He points to a bright spot to the left of The Lou. “I shall call that The Lover’s Grove.” 

This time, Harry’s breath hitches. 

Louis hovers over him. 

_The Lover’s Grove._

“What brought you here?” he asks quietly. 

_Just tell him. There’s no point keeping it bottled up._

“I got dumped,” he tells Louis, voice rough with emotion. “We were together for two years, friends before that. Then we decided to move in together because, like, it made sense, right? If you’re not moving forward in a relationship, it becomes… stale. Stagnant water. Everyone knows that’s bad. And then he decided I wasn’t what he wanted. That _commitment_ forever wasn’t what he wanted. And he left me alone in that stupid apartment.”

Louis caresses his cheek, thumb moving back and forth softly. 

Harry looks to the stars. 

“I thought coming here would help. Just getting myself in a new environment. Gemma tagged along and we started in Oregon, made our way down to San Francisco and Los Angeles. Drove across the country with her friend Chloe. She thought I could sleep my way across the continental US and somehow get back at my ex, but I’m not really that person. I can’t just… that’s just not me.” He grimaces as he remembers Atlanta. “I did spend the night with one person and it was… oh, God. I made the mistake of telling him I’d be leaving in two days, so he wouldn’t see me again and he… so rude. So fucking rude. Think he was just looking for someone easy to get him off — didn’t really care for me. And then I had to find my way back to the motel… it was awful.”

Louis only murmurs, “I’m sorry. I hope Connecticut is treating you better.”

Harry smiles despite himself. “I think Connecticut is getting all around tens from me.”

At that, Louis’ face softens imperceptibly. “If I remember correctly, I think I have to do more before I earn a score of ten.” 

Harry knows his face scrunches in confusion, but he doesn’t really have time to think about it much. Louis’ hand presses more firmly against his cheek and then his lips are pressed into the corner of Harry’s mouth. He smiles against Harry’s skin and Harry swears his heart skips a beat. Louis lifts his head, but something shifts in that moment. He blinks down at Harry with bottomless eyes and Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ naked shoulders, pulls him down into a kiss that makes his toes curl. The scruff of Louis’ beard leaves Harry’s face burning pleasantly and the ocean continues singing their song. 

Perhaps this is the closure he was looking for. 

Perhaps Louis is the clarity he was hoping to find. 

_What if I'm happy?_

_What if it feels so good to forget?_

_And what if I let go_

_And I let someone else in?_

_And maybe I'm afraid of a clean slate_

_That you're just another memory to replace_

_And what if I'm happy, yeah?_


	2. LOUIS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> louis' side of things, at ur service due to (semi) popular demand x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6p8SiGaIlZ7Je0QPXKkmSe?si=a9nkVWcpQmyoy3OVrkSOaQ) of songs that harry sends to louis, its rly fucking soft 🥺 enjoy this 10k mess of louis' head

Louis should’ve known he would become enchanted with Harry the first he saw him. 

He’d been on the beach with the twins — all four of them. Phoebe and Daisy were helping the little ones build castles in the sand and Louis was simply there to keep an eye on them. Lottie and Fizzy wanted to take Jay somewhere, just the three of them, so Louis happily agreed to watch Ernie and Doris. He always missed them. Living so away from home, he’d already missed out on so much of their little lives and he cherished every moment he got to spend with them. 

They were out on the main part of the beach, crowded with tourists and visitors and locals. It was a particularly nasty day, so the place looked more full than usual. Louis didn’t really mind. It was nice to see Doris skip over to another family and strike a friendship with the children. He couldn’t help the warm affection when Ernie took Louis’ aviators and planted them firmly in the highest tower — a far too expensive flag for something that’d whoosh away by a strong gust of wind. 

Doris came to tug at his wrist. “Achoo, I want appley juice. Cold.”

And who was Louis to not oblige? When she said _Achoo_ instead of _Louis,_ and _appley_ instead of _apple._ So that was why Louis left the little twins with the girls. That was why he saw Harry Styles that day. 

He was walking back from the house, holding pouches of Capri Sun. Harry Styles was lounging on a beach towel with two women, leaning back on his elbows, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. His eyes were closed, sun kissing his face, mouth shaped into half a smile — like at any moment a laugh would spill out. Louis didn’t stop and stare at the stranger, but he did slow down when Harry Styles sat up and playfully kicked one of the women in the shin. And then he did laugh. 

When Louis passed by them, he heard Harry Styles say, “You do have such a rank mind, bro.” 

That voice made Louis ache for England. _Home._ Even though they hadn’t spoken, Louis knew that this stranger was not from around here. He’d been coming to this beach for years and hadn’t once seen those people here before — and he was at least a little acquainted with those who vacationed here regularly. Louis knew the ins and outs of the beach better than the back of his hand. 

Harry Styles wasn’t from here, but that didn’t stop him from becoming a part of the beach. 

Louis saw him at the bar, laughing with the two women. Louis saw him there alone, eyes somewhere far away and mouth holding back something that surely begged to come out. Louis saw him alone at the beach, reading underneath the shade of an umbrella. Louis saw him sitting on the rocks, almost blending into the blackness, staring up at the map of stars. Louis wondered what he saw, what he was doing in Clinton when his heart was clearly elsewhere. Something about him was… bewitching. 

Maybe it was the accent that beckoned Louis home, or maybe it was the cross tattoo on his hand. Louis wasn’t the religious type, never had been, but maybe his mind could be changed. _Maybe._ Maybe it was the odd ring he wore. Sort of a silver half spiral, one end of it wider than the other. The wide bit that covered most of the knuckle of his middle finger was sectioned off into inward facing triangles, each depicting something different: a serpent with an arrow through it, a weighted scale balancing nothing, a skull and crossbones dominating one side. Louis stared shamelessly when he poured another drink; a hooked pattern circled its way in the silver, the dwindling curve disappearing inside Harry’s loosely fisted hand. It was edgy, almost threatening — an antithesis of whatever Harry Styles was. 

Maybe that was it. Maybe Louis just wanted to know what this homesick stranger was trying to wash away with vodka. 

⬥⬦⬥

The thought invades Louis’ mind again when he comes back from the house, this time holding a towel for him and Harry. As the distance between them melts, Louis stares. 

He watches Harry sitting on the rocks again, head tilted towards the sky as the breezes flitters through his hair. The bandana that was holding it back is gone and Louis simply _stares,_ breath stolen from him in a silent gasp. All this time that Louis has been watching Harry Styles wander around his beach, not once has this stranger looked this effortlessly mesmerizing. Like he _belongs_ here. He rivals the moon in his loneliness and loveliness and Louis would believe it if he controlled the tides, too. There’s an aura of soft darkness around him, cloaking him in velvet night. It was there earlier, too — when they were in the car and then later at sunset. It was different then, a little warmer, a little louder. Not to be seen, but demanding to be felt, to be found. 

Louis isn’t used to finding pieces of England around here and seeing Harry Styles like this makes him want to _keep_ it. And that terrifies him a little, knowing what wanting home might mean. He doesn’t get to keep it, not in the way that’ll be enough for him. But he wants to know what part of himself Harry is so adamant on tucking away, so he asks. 

Later, when they’ve named stars after each other and Louis has said _Harry Styles Harry Styles Harry Styles_ to his heart’s content, when they’ve kissed soft and slow, when Harry has lined the freckles on Louis’ cheek, when Louis’ fingers have found their new favourite place in Harry’s hair, he asks. 

With his heart dangerously close to fluttering, he asks, “Why don’t you stay with me for a while, Harry Styles?”

So maybe he wants to keep saying _Harry Styles_ for a long time. 

“I can stay,” Harry says right back and Louis knows immediately he misunderstood. “I doubt Gemma’s waiting up for me. I think she’ll actually be happy if I stay out late.”

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Sorry?”

“I meant, _stay with me,_ Harry.” And then, just because he can: “Stay for my birthday.” 

“When is your birthday?”

“Christmas Eve.” 

Louis can pinpoint the exact moment Harry stops breathing for one, two, three beats. Then he exhales, chokes a little bit on the air he’d already breathed in. He stares at Louis with his mouth parted, like silent words escaped him and Louis missed it. Then his eyebrows pull together in that way that’s already so familiar and he says, “That’s five months from now.” 

He’s not wrong. “You’re not wrong.” And Louis can’t bear the deer-in-headlights look in Harry’s eyes, so he laughs. “Lighten up, Harry Styles, you don’t have to stay for five months. We celebrate my birthday in August, mostly because I don’t like taking so much time off from the hospital every year to go back to England. Coming back and trying to catch up to everyone else is a nightmare, honestly. Made that mistake my first year as a resident and never again. So we just do it when Mum and the others visit in the summer.” 

Louis thinks that will do the trick, but Harry’s face stays crestfallen. Louis isn’t sure what he did wrong, what line he crossed, but he wants to undo it at once. He tugs at Harry’s hand. 

“I’m sorry. I was just joking.” Harry tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “What shouldn’t I have said?” 

“Nothing.” Harry bridges the gap between them and kisses Louis in a way that makes the stars disappear. The ocean burns and the stars disappear and Louis can still feel the deep crease between Harry’s eyebrows. 

Louis pulls back. “What is it, darling?” 

“Nothing, I just —” Harry drops his head onto Louis’ naked shoulder. “It’s not you, it’s me. I swear. It’s… it’s my ex.”

The nameless, heartless ex. Louis already hates him. 

“Even though I know I didn’t, sometimes I feel like I jumped in too quickly with him. Always too soon. I asked him out first, I kissed him first, I spent the night at his place first. It was always me. And then he left me and this just felt like... Five months just felt too much too soon. And then there _are_ no five months and that’s just — it reminded me of him, but it’s not you. It’s just my head.” 

Louis hugs Harry close, guilt washing over him. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t know that. I wouldn’t do that.” 

Harry leans back. In the nightlight, his features are sinfully soft and he says, “Louis.” His mouth forms the word carefully, deliberately. Then, he closes his eyes for a heartbeat and smiles, even if it’s a little shaky. “I’d love to stay for your fake birthday.”

Louis could kiss him for it, but Harry’s head turns upward to the sky, eyes searching for something unbeknownst to Louis. Then he looks at Louis again, his hands coming to rest on either side of Louis’ face. The cool metal of Harry’s rings against his cheeks sends a pleasant shiver down Louis’ spine. Harry’s eyes are boundless. Bottomless. He takes a breath, like he’s bracing himself for something and says, “I think you are what I was looking for.” 

Louis’ scared to ask what that is — _was_ — but he asks anyway. 

Harry says, “Somebody on the other side.” 

⬥⬦⬥

When Harry leaves in the second week of August, it’s an odd sort of goodbye. 

Louis doesn’t want him to go, but he’s not in a position to ask him to stay, either. And he has to go back to work, too. He used up almost all of his sick days and vacation days to be here with his family and now it’s time to go back to New Haven. He’d open his home to Harry, but again — he doesn’t think they’re there. Whatever this is, Louis doesn’t want it to end, but… he can’t ask it of Harry. Harry, who doesn’t even live on the same continent. Harry, who still has that tinge of sorrow in his eyes when he thinks no one’s looking. Harry, who stares at Louis’ hand wistfully as they drive to the airport. 

Gemma Styles left two weeks ago. Their initial trip only allowed her to stay until then, unless she changed her flights and renegotiated her schedule at work. Uninterested in all of that, she left her brother in Louis’ care and went back to England alone. Harry insisted he could go to the airport alone, that he would pay the ridiculous Uber fare, that he didn’t want to burden Louis with anything else. Louis insisted, too. 

He doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

So he drives Harry to the airport and Harry holds his hand. It’s a long drive to JFK and Louis knows there won’t be an emotional goodbye when they reach the airport. The place is just not meant for it and Louis is no good at them, anyway. He can do _See you later’s,_ but he doesn’t know how to say a decent goodbye. 

He doesn’t _want_ to say goodbye to Harry Styles. 

At some point, Harry says, “I’m going to send you songs.” When Louis looks at him with a silent question, he elaborates. “I’m not… I’m sure you’ve realized, I’m not the best at expressing myself. Or, like. More that I’m not the best at communicating my feelings that well. So I’m going to send you songs.” 

Louis smiles. “Okay.” He squeezes Harry's hand. 

That’s something he already knows about Harry — Harry has a knack for finding songs that speak for him. Louis hasn’t forgotten the very first song they listened to together and it’s the first song on his new Spotify playlist: _Happy Harry Days._ Harry’s habit of making puns may have played a part in that. 

They stop to eat at an Indian restaurant when they pass through Darien. It’s a pretty posh place, what with it being in Darien and all, but it’s not very crowded this early in the day. In fact, there’s only one couple already seated when Harry and Louis walk in. They settle in at a table for two tucked away in the back corner of the room. Colourful art pieces decorate the taupe walls and Louis watches Harry get lost in them. The way his eyes linger on the painting of two women and say, _I’d like to take this home and hang it in my room._ If Louis were the son of a senator or a congressman, maybe he would ask the manager or owner of this place for its price. As it is, he’s neither of those things and he doesn’t live life in Angel McElroy’s filthy rich footsteps. 

When their waiter comes, Harry orders a vegetarian dish even though he’s not a vegetarian. 

“It’s just _really_ bloody delicious whenever I’ve had it,” he says. 

Louis himself asks for a chicken dish that _isn’t_ chicken tikka. He’s not a very adventurous eater and he’s only here because, apparently, Harry’s quite well versed in South Asian cuisine. Louis doesn’t ask how that came to be the case, but he reckons it has something to do with the friend he mentioned on their first date. Zayn. 

As they wait for their food, Harry quietly sips his ice cold water. His eyes stay on the art hanging around the room, cataloguing one piece after another. Louis doesn’t know if Harry’s an artist, but it wouldn’t be surprising if true. The way Harry carries himself, the way he tilts his head just a little to the side, the way he chooses his words with so much care, the way sometimes his words just tumble out like haphazard brushstrokes, the way his eyes _still_ carry that whisper of sorrow — it all points to the anguished soul of an artist. 

“Penny for your thoughts, Harry Styles?” 

His eyes find Louis’. “It’s just odd, I think.”

“What is?”

“Just… all of it.” He averts his gaze. “How much I’ve enjoyed myself here, you know. _Here_ of all places. California didn’t hold the charm that I’ve found in Connecticut and I just think it’s odd. California should be the place that sticks out, but it’s not. It’s this.” He looks at Louis again. “It’s you.” 

It’s Louis’ turn to look away. For all his confidence, he doesn’t know what to say in response to that. It’s not fair, he thinks, that he got to have Harry Styles for three, short weeks. Three tantalizingly short weeks. 

“Louis.” 

“Hmm?”

Harry slides his phone across the table. “Here’s your first song.” 

Louis takes the phone in his head. The Spotify screen shows the song paused at 0:00; a simple vertical video with muted colours flashes on it. 

Title: IDK You Yet

Artist: Alexander 23 

“Don’t crank it,” Harry jokes, but the timidness in his voice doesn’t match his words. 

Louis holds the phone up to his ear and hits play, closes his eyes as a simple, circular guitar melody fills the space. He has to look at Harry when he hears the lyrics, he can’t _not_ look at Harry. But Harry doesn’t look at him. Harry stares down at the table, at his hands, fingers fiddling with a ring. 

_How can you miss someone you’ve never met?_

_’Cause I need you now but I don’t know you yet_

_But can you find me soon because I’m in my head?_

_Yeah, I need you now but I don’t know you yet_

Louis listens to the song quietly, heart beating somewhere near his throat. There’s a sadness about it, an inherent _longing_ and desperation in the words. Something so gut wrenchingly vulnerable, palpable in the way Harry gnaws at his bottom lip. A memory resurfaces: Harry at the beach, sitting on the rocks by himself, head tilted towards the sky, looking. Searching. 

Louis reaches across the table and takes Harry’s hands in his and Harry doesn’t look at him. 

_How can you miss someone you’ve never met?_

_Oh, tell me are your eyes brown, blue, or green?_

_And do you like it with sugar and cream?_

_Or do you take it straight, oh, just like me?_

Louis knows these things about Harry. Green eyes. Tea with no sugar, no milk. Coffee black, just a spot of cream if the mood strikes. 

Harry knows these things about Louis. Tea with no sugar, just a dash of milk. Coffee orders vary, but mostly come with cream and usually a hint of sugar. 

Their food arrives then. _Quick service,_ Louis thinks, but he doesn’t know if that’s typically true or if it’s because they’re the only ones here. 

The song ends with Alexander singing one line again and again: _I need you now but I don’t know you yet._

The quiet that follows is heavy, pointed. There’s the sound of a piano instrumental filtering the room, whisper soft and barely there. There’s the muted sound of Harry breaking his naan and moving it around his plate. 

He still won’t look at Louis. 

So Louis follows suit. He breaks his own naan and dips it into the chicken dish. He feels a little, maybe a lot, uncultured when he struggles for a moment to get it right. It’s not like he’s never seen people eat Indian food before — he has. He knows there’s a proper way to fold the bread _just so_ and pick up the food _just like this._ It’s just that he doesn’t have a lot of practice with it. 

A low chuckle steals his attention and he looks up to see Harry holding back a laugh. “You make it look so difficult,” Harry says, eyes alight with mirth. 

Louis, feeling just a touch embarrassed, breaks off another piece of the bread and continues like nothing’s the matter. “Not _all_ of us are various cultural experts.” 

Harry takes another bite. “I’m really not. I’ve just been eating a lot of Pakistani food for, like, years now. Zayn’s mum is a culinary genius. He and I have lunch or dinner together at least twice a month, so, you know. I’ve just picked up on some things. Look.” He breaks a piece of naan. “It’s not really — you’re not really _dipping_ the naan in your food. It’s not like dipping a biscuit in tea. You need to actually, just like… pick up the food with it. Get your hand a little messy, Lou, come on.” 

Louis would glare, but it gets lost in his laughter. “I’m not a _child,_ Harry Styles. I can eat without making a right mess.” He makes a show of breaking off a bit of the meat with his naan and getting a generous amount of masala with it. Harry raises his glass of water in a toast. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“He’s got it, ladies and friends!” Harry whisper-exclaims with faux enthusiasm. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Now you’re just taking the piss.” 

Harry laughs. 

And just like that, the weird tension dissipates, but Louis’ mind is still replaying the song. 

He doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

He knew what this was when he first talked to Harry. He didn’t know much at the time, but he knew Harry wasn’t here to say. He knew that whoever this Harry Styles was, he’d be gone soon and Louis would still be here. He knew this. And it was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be _easy_ and fun and it was. It was so easy with Harry. Kissing him was so easy and it was so fun, it was the easiest thing Louis has ever done. Holding his hand and tracing the outline of his cross tattoo was so easy. Spreading him open on his bed was so _easy,_ it was so goddamn easy and making him whine was so, _so_ easy. Taking him for a midnight swim, kissing him in the ocean, hanging onto his naked back as he walked them back home… it was all _easy._

That’s what it was supposed to be. Louis knew that. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. 

But he did. 

He went and got lost in the sound of Harry’s laughter, got drunk on the sounds Harry made when he was under Louis, got addicted to the feeling of Harry’s skin against his own. He grew fond of the tattoos that litter Harry’s body and he memorized the stormy cut between Harry’s brows when he concentrates on something. He learned what things Harry likes to photograph: shores, seashells, sunsets, stars — most things beginning with _S._ One of Harry’s new favourite subjects to photograph begins with _L_ and Louis pushes that particular thought away. 

He wasn’t supposed to get attached. 

He likes Harry too much and he doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

“Lou.” 

Louis looks up at the sound of his name — a nickname Harry picked up from Louis’ family. He’s already whispered it into Louis’ skin countless times. 

“What, Harold?” 

“Let’s get some dessert so we can leave. I need to get out of here.” 

Louis doesn’t ask what’s so urgent, because there’s no urgency in Harry’s voice. He sounds casual, the way he always does — words dripping from his tongue slowly, warmly. Like he has all the time in the word and there’s no rush for anything. Louis wishes he had more of that in him, wishes he was as calm and deliberate as Harry. He has learned to slow down a bit during his residency, he _has_ to be able to communicate with his patients calmly, but that’s about where it stays. Once he’s in the company of friends, all that training disappears. 

Harry asks for a _kheer_ and Louis doesn’t feel a craving for something sweet, so he just steals a bite from Harry’s dessert. It’s soft and milky, not spongy but still disappears almost instantly in his mouth. 

“Someday I’ll teach you how to make this,” Harry says, 

Louis ignores the implications of that. He can’t get his hopes up, not when Harry is _leaving_ and Louis will still be here for several years to finish his residency and fellowship. 

When they leave the restaurant, they don’t make it inside the car. 

Harry crowds Louis against the back door, his hands on Louis’ waist, his forehead on Louis’ shoulder. He whispers Louis’ name and Louis can’t tell what it is — a question, an answer, a plea. Louis wants to hug him back, wants to hold him tight, but then Harry takes a small step back. His green eyes are sad as they bore into Louis’. It’s the same sadness that surrounded him on their impromptu date, when they danced to the rhythm of the sea. His mouth twitches into an empty smile and he leans close to press a lingering kiss to Louis’ forehead; Louis’ eyes flutter closed at the feeling of Harry’s lips against his skin. 

“C’mon, get in the car.” Harry taps Louis’ nose with one finger and this time a warm smile plays on his mouth. “I have things to say to you.” 

Louis doesn’t really like the sound of that, doesn’t really know what that means. Knowing Harry, it could be nothing or it could leave Louis with pieces of his heart a little fractured, a little chipped. 

_Your own fault for opening up to someone who was never going to stay._

Harry did stay, though. He changed his flights and he stayed with Louis for two extra weeks. He didn’t even _know_ Louis, but he stayed. 

_And now he’s leaving anyway. He’s going back home._

Once in the car, Harry says, “Don’t drive yet,” so Louis doesn’t. He turns on the car and cranks up the air con and then waits for Harry to say whatever’s on his mind. He’s not sure if he wants to know. Harry sits there, his eyes on his hands, fiddling with that same ring. If Louis wore rings regularly, he’d perhaps want to have it — even if only because it’s Harry. It wouldn’t be appropriate for work, but he could wear it around his friends. He could wear it whenever he wasn’t at work. 

“I’m not really good at this,” comes Harry’s quiet voice. Louis lifts his eyes from Harry’s hands to his face; Harry doesn’t look at him. “I’m just gonna… I’ll just try to be honest. If that’s okay.” 

The vulnerability shines through him and Louis feels a tug at his own heart. “Of course it’s okay, darling.” 

“Right.” A wet laugh escapes him. “I never wanted to do this. I didn’t — I didn’t want to sleep my way across the country, yeah, but I definitely didn’t expect… you. Not once did I think that I’d find someone in bloody Connecticut of all places, someone who I could — someone that I would _like._ I didn’t want that.” When his eyes meet Louis’, they’re glassy and rimmed with red. “I didn’t want to find you.” 

That hurts. “Sweetheart —”

“No, please, let me finish. Let me just…” Harry wipes at his eyes and sniffles quietly. “Sorry, this is embarrassing. I’m just — sorry. ” 

Louis takes one of Harry’s hands and squeezes. “You’re alright, babe.” 

Harry doesn’t squeeze back. That hurts, too. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Harry continues, oblivious to the way his words cut into Louis. “I didn’t know I was looking for _you_ and I didn’t want to find you _here_ because now I have to go. And I can’t take you with me and I also can’t — I’m scared shitless because I don’t want to forget you, either. I don’t want you to forget me.” 

“I won’t,” Louis promises. How could he forget Harry Styles? 

“I like you too much, Louis. You make me forget some of the hurt.” 

And that’s it, isn’t it? It was so _easy_ to make Harry laugh, to distract him from whatever doubts and insecurities kept tugging at his mind, whatever brought out that loneliness in him. It was easy to bring light into his eyes and hearing that echoed in Harry’s words does a number on Louis. 

“I know,” Harry breathes out in a shaky exhale, “I know this wasn’t — I’m not —” 

Louis isn’t used to Harry stumbling over his words like this — Harry, who deliberates and carefully picks every word. Harry, who has a way of saying exactly what he wants. Harry, who can smoothly talk himself into and out of anything. Louis rubs circles into the back of Harry’s hand.

“I know this is selfish, I know. But I want to still have you in my life, even if I’m not _here._ And I know that’s not what this was, I know you didn’t ask for that, but I just — I don’t think I’m cut out for this. I can’t do this again, you know. The whole… looking for someone I connect with, going on awkward first dates and, like, seeing if it works. I thought I was _done_ with all of that and then Ethan left and I didn’t want to do that, but then I met you and —” 

He stops, looks away and out the passenger window. In the distance, a car horn blares. 

This isn’t what Louis wanted, ever. He doesn’t want to say goodbye and he doesn’t want to hear Harry go on about… _this._ A clean break would’ve been the best. The easiest to heal from. But it also would’ve left Louis wondering, _what if?_ What if Harry stayed? What if Louis went to England? What if they met somewhere in the middle? What if they made it work? Because Louis doesn’t really get to make it work. Given the unpredictable nature of his job and the insane amount of hours he puts in, he doesn’t often get a chance to make it work with anyone. Most people don’t have the patience to wait for a surgical resident and Louis doesn’t have space in his life for someone who doesn’t understand the realities of his job. 

He tugs at Harry’s hand. “You’re not going away forever, babe. You can still come back.” 

Louis doesn’t know what Harry’s expecting to hear, but maybe that was the right thing to say because Harry turns to face him again. 

“I don’t want to ask you to wait. I don’t want you to just… wait. That’s not fair.” 

Louis shrugs, tries for nonchalance. “I haven’t been waiting for you, Harry Styles, I’m too busy for that.” When Harry’s frown deepens, Louis tries again. “I’ll still be here in six months, is what I mean. Six months, a year, whatever. Believe me, I’ve tried to make things work before you, but it never happened. Not really anyone’s ideal relationship when their boyfriend has to leave in the middle of your date because his patient was being rushed into surgery and he got paged 911. They all think it’s heroic at first.” Louis feels the corners of his mouth tilt in something humourless. “It’s sick at first, the idea of dating a surgeon. _‘You save lives, Louis. That’s so sick.’_ But the novelty wears off quite quickly when I prioritize my _actually_ sick patients. The little ones who are terrified of all the tubes and needles constantly being put in them. It’s easy to forget the heroism when I get up halfway through a date three times. So believe me. You wouldn’t be making me wait.” 

Harry stares him, stunned into silence. Louis feels his face darken. He didn’t mean to unload all of that on Harry, but it’s not often he gets to let his guard down that way. His colleagues have suggested therapy, but he doesn’t think that’s really the answer. He just wants someone who’ll stay when the rose tinted glasses come off and being a surgeon isn’t heroic — it’s just a stressful and time consuming job. 

“I think,” Harry begins, and then presses his lips in a thin line. He’s thinking, Louis can tell. Mulling over what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. His eyes don’t waver from Louis’ when he says, “I don’t think what you do is _sick_ or _heroic._ I think it’s honourable. I think… I think it's brave. I think it takes a lot of self control and discipline to do what you do. I don't think it's something that just anyone could do. I know I couldn’t. And... I don't think that you should ever settle for someone who makes you feel like the work you do is anything less than that.” 

Louis doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he does what he knows. He leans across the console and pulls Harry into a kiss, hopes he can pour his words into it. Harry comes easily, always does, and Louis wishes they weren’t in a car so he could kiss Harry properly, the way he likes it best. With a swipe of his tongue along the roof of Harry’s mouth, he thinks, _Thank you._ Harry’s hand against his cheek says, _I know._

When they break apart, Harry smiles at him with misty eyes. Louis tugs at a loose curl and reels Harry in once more, just a sweet press of lips. 

“I like you too much, too, Harry Styles.” 

Rosy pink spreads across Harry’s nose and cheeks and he looks down at his hands, twists his rings. “I would give you this,” he says, twisting that heavy ring. “Sort of like safe keeping. Something to come back for, you know. Like, other than you.” A dimple appears when Louis raises his brows, affronted. “Zayn got it from a vintage store a few years ago and then I looked for it everywhere because it’s just so wicked and I couldn’t find it _anywhere._ He saw me lusting after it and gave it to me for my birthday. He’d actually skin me alive if I gave it to someone else.” 

If Louis feels a sudden, irrational flare of jealousy, then, well, no one has to know. “I’d prefer it if _I’m_ the thing you come back for, thank you very much, Curly.” 

Harry hums in amusement and slides off a plain silver ring from his right hand. Wordlessly, he slides it onto Louis’ middle finger. It’s a little snug, but Louis doesn’t complain. Instead, he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s hand holding his — not the thrum of butterflies in his chest. 

“She’s my baby. Take care of her.” 

⬦

At the airport, Harry leaves with a bruising kiss and the words, “I’ll see you soon.” 

And if Louis listens to his Harry playlist on the drive back home, then that, too, is no one’s business. 

⬥⬦⬥

September drags on. 

Louis misses Harry, but his attention gets captivated by two new patients: a preemie with a congenital heart defect and a fourteen year old with cystic fibrosis. He knows they can save the baby. If anyone asked how he’s sure of it, he couldn’t say. Medicine is anything but intuitive; it follows a particular science, but there’s always a _feeling_ when Louis knows a patient will make it. All medicine and science aside, there’s an element of something more, something much bigger than Louis. 

“I don’t know how you think like that, Tommo,” Niall had said once. 

“I’d lose my grip on sanity otherwise,” Louis had told him. 

Louis’ not a religious person by any means, but he’s not on Niall’s wavelength, either. Not anymore. If science and medicine were the only forces at play, his mother wouldn’t be alive today. Six years ago, she was diagnosed with stage IV cancer and a survival rate of less than ten percent. Everything about her scans showed she had no more than a few months to live — maybe a year at most, if the universe was feeling sympathetic. Everything Louis knew about science and medicine told him that he’d lose his favourite person any day. But not only did she beat those piss poor odds, she went on to give birth to two beautiful babies. She kept _living._ She fought like hell, but she survived and she’s alive. Healthy. 

That’s when Louis learned that science and medicine aren’t the only things that can save a life. 

When the preemie makes it through the first three nights, Louis knows she’ll be fine. It keeps him on edge and he doesn’t want to leave the hospital in case something happens, but he has a feeling she’ll be fine. 

It’s the teenager Louis isn’t sure about. 

“I mean, come on, man,” he complains to Niall one day when they’re in the upstairs doctors’ lounge. “How do you miss a kid ruining his perfectly good lungs? Actually, not even. Who knows how long his lungs have been deteriorating and the parents just… what? Didn’t realize their kid is making it worse?” 

Niall is spread out on one of the couches, head cushioned on his arms and ankles crossed. “I don’t know, man. Maybe they tried to intervene and it didn’t take. You know how kids get.”

Louis knows it’s not his place to judge. It’s not. Part of his job — a _big_ part — is learning not to judge his patients because he rarely gets the full picture. Regardless of how thorough the patient history they compile is, there’s always something missing. He doesn’t know what’s missing from Sean Hennesy’s story. Still, though. He’s only human. 

“They have a responsibility, Niall. They signed up to be foster parents and they have a responsibility to make sure the kids under their custody are safe. That’s quite _literally_ what they signed up for.” 

“Give it up, Tommo. Don’t turn this into something it isn’t.” 

Louis hums noncommittally. Cystic fibrosis is a genetic disease, one that Sean most likely inherited from one of his biological parents, but the situation still doesn’t sit right with Louis. He can’t blame Sean’s foster parents for him having the disease, but he can’t withhold judgement when he knows that Sean is essentially addicted to nicotine — from cigarettes and JUUL pods he got from kids at school. Now he’s waiting on new lungs and he needs them _soon_.

“It’s just irresponsible.”

“Don’t, Louis.” Niall sits up finally and grabs for his cup of coffee. “Don’t judge parents until you’ve been one yourself and dealt with conniving teens.” 

That shuts Louis right up, but he doesn’t miss the defensive note in Niall’s voice. He narrows his eyes at his friend. “What’s got you heading the Parents Defense Club today?” 

“Nothing,” Niall shrugs, avoiding eye contact with Louis. He takes another sip of his coffee before an anxious laugh bubbles out of him. “Shit,” he mutters, his cheeks reddening. He meets Louis’ gaze. “Okay, you can’t tell anyone if I tell you.” 

“When have you known me to be a gossip, Nialler.” 

“Fuck.” Niall drags a hand through his hair, obviously nervous. “Dana’s pregnant.” 

“No way.”

“She’s still in her first trimester, so we’re not telling people, but. Shit. You’re my best friend, Lou.”

“Holy fuck, man.” Louis edges closer to Niall and pulls him into a tight hug. “Congratulations, daddy.” 

“Ew, Tommo, shut up.” Niall squeezes him tighter. “Don’t ruin it.” 

Louis guffaws and Niall joins in, both of them shaking with laughter. Niall with a baby… Of them two of them, Louis always imagined he’d be the first to have a baby, but maybe some things are just fated a certain way. Niall’s never been the guy to long for a baby, but looking at him now Louis knows he’ll make a great father. 

“I’d better be the godfather,” he says. 

Nialls clicks his tongue. “As if I’d want anyone else.” 

⬦

They’re well into October and little Arabella Antonio is still in the NICU. They managed to repair her heart as much as possible through several procedures and now she’s being kept for observation. She can open her eyes now and her grip is impressive for someone her size. Louis stays with her whenever he has time to spare, which admittedly isn’t very often. On the few occasions that he’s worked the night shift in the last four weeks, he spent a few hours with her. She’s still so _tiny_ and Louis knows her parents just want to take her home, but she’s too small and they’re still too scared. So he spends those few hours holding her in his arms, hoping the warm contact provides her some comfort. 

It’s not the ideal use of time for a resident like him, but he knows it helps the little ones. When their parents can’t be with them for too long, it helps to have someone hold them, touch them. The power of human contact, Louis thinks, is greatly underestimated by many people. 

Last week of October, Sean’s condition inches dangerously close to critical. Close enough that he gets bumped up the waiting list. Last day of October is when they find a match for Sean: a seventeen year old who died in a car accident while driving home from college. _Seventeen._

_The price you pay for being a genius,_ Louis thinks darkly as he assists Dr. DiMarco with the transplant. And it’s not an easy transplant. Louis was hoping they’d be in and out without any complications, but Sean’s heart gives them a scare multiple times during the procedure. It was already working harder because of his absolutely shitty lungs and the operation just proves too much for it to handle, even with the bypass. They make it work, though. They successfully replace Sean’s lungs and, afterwards, Louis spends half an hour in the multi-faith chapel on the first floor. 

It’s not something he does often. Louis and God aren’t exactly best friends — whoever _God_ may be. But on days like this, he feels like he ought to send up on occasional thanks. The look of relief on Sean’s foster parents when they learned he’ll be alright is something that’s going to stick with Louis for a while. As will the fact that the lungs inside of his patient belonged to a _seventeen year old kid._ He doesn’t pretend to understand why the universe works the way it does, but he says his thanks nonetheless. Thanks for being able to save one kid’s life against horrendous odds. 

When Louis goes to round on Sean later, he pulls up a chair next to his bed. 

“You did good in there, kiddo,” he tells Sean. “But I need you to listen to me now. Like, _really_ listen.” Sean’s a good kid, is the thing. Louis knows that by now, has spent enough time in and around his room to know that. “You can’t waste your new lungs, man. I mean that. You’re not allowed to smoke. Or vape. Or drink alcohol. You hear me? You’re a smart kid, I know you know those things are bad for you. _Especially_ for you.” He takes Sean’s little hand in his own. “I wish I could do more to help you, bud, but there’s just no cure for what you have, not right now. If you smoke again, even if it’s just a little bit, just a few times — it’s going to make your lungs bad again. Really, really bad. And if they get bad, I can’t promise that they’ll give you new ones again.” 

_Slow down,_ a part of him whispers. 

_A seventeen year old kid is dead,_ another part retorts. Basically the same age as Phoebe and Daisy. 

“You’ve gotta promise me, Sean. The new lungs you have now came from another kid, so you have to pinky promise me that you’ll be good. They’re a _gift_ and you can’t waste them.”

Sean doesn’t say anything, but he moves his hand and links his pinky finger with Louis’. Louis fights back a lump in his throat. “Attaboy! I’ll come back to check on you later, alright? Get some rest.” 

When he gets home, it’s nearly two in morning. His feet _hurt_ because the surgery took just about ten hours and he’d been on call long before that. His bones ache and every inch of him wants to be asleep. When he gets into bed, though, he looks at his phone. It’s 7 a.m. in London. He clicks on his texts with Harry and something in his chest settles. 

The last text from Harry is a picture of him with badly drawn cat whiskers on his face. The caption is: _Happy Halloween :)_ The text before that is two days old and it simply reads, _Call soon?_

And Louis never responded. He remembers seeing it when his shift ended. He’d told himself he’d call Harry when he got home, but then he got home and fell asleep on the couch with a bowl of spaghetti in his lap. 

After a moment’s indecision in which Louis fiddles with the silver ring on his finger, he clicks on Harry’s contact and taps the FaceTime icon. It rings rings rings and he’s just about to end the call when Harry’s face fills his screen. Harry’s soft, sleep-mussed faced. 

“Lou?” His voice is gravelly, heavenly. Just the right side of raspy. “You okay?” 

Louis buries himself deeper in his pillow. “Sorry I woke you,” he almost whispers, like Harry’s next to him. “Sorry I didn’t answer your texts. Totally forgot.” 

Harry rubs at one eye with the heel of his palm and then rakes a hand through his hair. It’s such a _Harry_ gesture and Louis wishes he were here right now, wishes _he_ could touch Harry’s hair. “It’s okay,” Harry says. 

Louis says, “I miss you. I wish you were here.”

He watches as Harry’s face melts, all his features softening as the glimpse of a grimace plays at his mouth and the tip of his nose becomes pink. “I miss you, too. Was dreaming about you.” 

“Oh?” Something warm washes over Louis and his eyelids get heavier. 

“It was nice,” Harry says quietly, slowly. “I could touch you. Felt nice.” 

With his eyes closed, Louis says, “I miss you,” just so Harry knows how much Louis misses him at times. “It was such a long day and it’s lonely coming home to an empty apartment. Sad, really.” 

“I’ll come visit you soon.” 

“You don’t have to fly out for me, love. I’ll manage.” 

Harry hums under his breath and then says, “I miss my boyfriend, too, and I’d like to see him soon.” 

Louis’ eyes fly open at that. At Harry’s words, his voice. “Your what?” 

Harry smiles. His cheeks are the loveliest shade of rose and he bites his lip when he says, “My boyfriend. That’s what you are, isn't it?” 

Louis blinks. He’s not sure he heard that correctly. “Your boyfriend,” he repeats, more question than anything. 

Harry keeps smiling, but it falters for just a moment. “I mean, yeah. I’m… The other night someone asked me out and I just said I wasn’t interested. That I’ve got a boyfriend and he wouldn’t be very happy.” Harry’s brows pull together. “Shouldn't I have? I mean, we’re — I thought this long distance thing is —”

“Harry Styles.” Harry shuts up. “I’m glad you told them no.” 

The lines disappear from his forehead. “I know.” Then, quieter: “You look really pretty.”

“I look like hell.” Louis’ eyes slide closed again and that same warmth glides over him. 

“My pretty Lou. Let me sing you to sleep.” Louis doesn’t open his eyes again and the sound of Harry’s voice is the most comforting blanket. 

_If I could fly, I’d be coming right back…_

⬥⬦⬥

November is hectic. 

He shouldn’t be on edge the way he is, but what boards coming up and every surgery he performs going on his record, it’s hard not to be. He spends more time than ever at the hospital, getting familiar with different cases and making the best of the skills lab. He works overtime more than he has ever before, practically living in one of the doctors’ lounges. He goes to the gym less often, doesn’t run as much as he used to, and he sees his friends less frequently. 

“I’m waiting for them to just get sick of you and kick you out of the program,” Dana says one rare night when the three of them are out for drinks. She, of course, sips her cherry soda. 

“Imagine that,” Niall chimes in. He nudges his girlfriend’s elbow. “This close to his boards and they throw him out on his ass bc they’re tired of seeing his ugly mug.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous that _all_ my patients love me and you’re not gonna be working soon. You’re scared someone better is going to replace you when you have your baby and you’ll come back to tough competition.” He grins at Dana and shakes his head. “You should’ve gloved him.” 

“Fuck _off.”_ Niall kicks him under the table. “You need to be on your best behaviour if you wanna be the godfather. I’m taking this very seriously.” 

The urge to roll his eyes again is strong, but Louis suppresses it. He does love his two idiots. 

All the extra time spent at the hospital means he talks to Harry less, too. His workload combined with their time difference is a nightmare to sort out, but he does his best. The very few mornings when he doesn’t have to work, he makes a herculean effort to wake up before noon so he can get _some_ time with his boy. Harry almost always answers and it’s nice to see him out and about. Sometimes he’s working, too, and can’t chat for long, but it’s good just to see him. 

December takes a toll on him. 

Sean comes back for a follow up visit and Louis’ relieved to see that he’s stuck by his promise so far. 

The ER gets crowded with winter-related injuries: a misstep on the ladder, burns from using the oven, something ruptured because of heavy lifting, broken bones from slipping on ice. The list goes on. Louis’ not a big fan of winter, but he can’t complain about the cases he gets to put on his record. He does think about taking a couple of weeks off for Christmas; it’d be nice to go home for a change. And it’s not like they’d say no to him, anyway. Out of all the residents, he has logged in the most hours in the OR _and_ gotten the most successful outcomes. He hardly ever asks for time off. In fact, he’s the one everyone comes to when they want a shift covered because they know he’s the most likely to do it. In the past two years, he’s taken a total of zero sick days. His work ethic is unquestionable and his record his spotless, so it wouldn’t be difficult to convince Dr. Piretti. 

_It’s Christmas. There’s almost_ always _interesting cases around Christmas._

He doesn’t ask for time off. 

And he does get interesting cases, even if some of them are highly unpleasant. 

The worst of it comes the day before his birthday. 

He should be used to car crashes by now, given that they’re one of the leading causes of death in the States, but it’s a shock every time. And this time is no different: a family of five, dad dead before the paramedics even got to the scene and mum barely holding on. One child barely has a scratch when they’re wheeled in and the other two are critical. As fate would have it, the seemingly unharmed child is no older than a year old. Louis scrubs in for the oldest child’s surgery with Dr. DiMarco — broken wrist, an arm fracture, and a pneumothorax. It’s a gruelling procedure and Louis can _feel_ her slipping away. As the clock ticks away, Louis has a sinking feeling that they won’t be able to save her. 

And then she hemorrhages. They can’t stitch her up fast enough. 

So that’s two of the five family members dead. 

Sometimes he really detests focusing on pediatrics. 

_Happy birthday, Louis._

On the drive back home, he listens to the songs Harry has sent him over the months. He’ll call Harry when he gets in bed. It may be late as fuck here, but London will be awake for him. Besides, Harry already texted when the clock hit midnight for Louis. It’s a sickeningly sweet gesture to wake up so early for him and it makes him feel just a little bit better. It’s enough to take away the taint of his day just a _little_ bit.

When he gets to his apartment, he makes a beeline for the kitchen. Peanut butter sandwich it is for dinner. He’d take out something from the freezer if it weren’t four in the fucking morning. But it is. So he just eats his sandwich and then brushes his teeth. A shower is simply asking too much of him at this hour, so he heads to the bedroom and freezes when he opens the door. 

There’s something in his bed. _Someone._ And his bedside lamp is on. Even with the person’s back to him, he recognizes the hair immediately. But he can’t believe it. He walks over to the bed gingerly and slides under the duvet; he’s met with the delicious scent of vanilla and tobacco. His heart constricts a little painfully in his chest. 

“Hi, baby,” he whispers, his arms slipping around Harry’s warm body. He drops a kiss behind Harry’s ear, on the back of his neck, on his shoulder. “Hi, you.” 

Harry turns around in his arms, eyes still closed. He just snuggles closer to Louis and buries his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. 

Louis kisses his forehead. “Wake up, Harry.” He shakes Harry gently, still stunned at the surprise of finding his boyfriend _in his bed_ — his boyfriend who should be across the ocean. “Hey. Darling.” 

Harry mumbles something unintelligible before pulling back slightly and opening his eyes. He takes in Louis, his eyes soft and warm, before smiling sleepily. “Lou. Happy birthday.”

Louis opens his mouth to say thank you, but then Harry’s mouth is on his own and every rational thought disappears. All he knows is Harry. Harry’s hand in his hair, Harry’s tongue against his own, Harry’s hips aligned with his. The heat that licks down his spine when Harry hooks a leg between his thighs. _Harry Harry Harry —_

“I missed you.” 

Harry pulls his head back and caresses Louis’ cheek with one thumb. “Missed you more.” His thumb runs under Louis’ eye. “You look exhausted, Dr. Tomlinson.” 

And Louis can’t help but smile at the lightness in Harry’s voice. “It was a _long_ day. I’m dead on me feet.” 

“And you smell… not good. Tangy.” Belying his words, Harry kisses the tip of his nose and pulls him into his chest. “Sleep. You can tell me about it tomorrow. Or, well. Today, really. Later.” 

“Hm. You can shower with me later and help me get rid of it.” Another kiss disappears into his hair, but Louis feels it all the way to his toes. “Thank you for being here.” 

“You asked me to spend your birthday with you. I said I would, didn’t I?” Harry hugs him tighter and Louis feels tension seep out of his shoulders. “You’re my favourite person, Louis Tomlinson.” 

_And you’re mine._

Louis hums instead. “And I like you very much. Too much.” 

He could say the other word. He would. But he doesn’t want it disappearing into the night. 

It’s something to hold on to, he thinks. 

⬦

When Louis wakes up, it’s to an empty bed and the smell of bacon. He’s fairly certain he didn’t have any bacon in his fridge. With great effort, he rolls out of bed still wearing last night’s clothes and makes his way towards the kitchen. He spots Harry’s suitcase by the edge of the sofa and marvels at how he could’ve possibly missed it earlier. 

In the kitchen, he finds Harry pouring tea into a black mug. On the small dining table are two place settings already arranged with eggy bread, topped with syrup, blueberries and pieces of strawberries adding a pop of colour. There’s another plate with eggs and bacon and more bread. 

“What…” 

“Good _morning!”_ Harry looks up at the sound of Louis’ voice and an infectious grin breaks out across his face. “Hii, I made you breakfast.” 

He puts down the steaming cup of tea onto the table and then slowly ambles over to where Louis is and wordlessly pulls Louis into a slow kiss. Louis goes easily, gets lost in the easy way Harry’s mouth moves against his own. Harry tastes of syrup and strawberries and Louis probably still has the smell of blood lingering on his skin. 

When they break apart, Louis burrows his face in the side of Harry’s neck. Harry’s arms are a warm blanket of safety around Louis and he smells all soft and _Harry._ “I didn’t have half these things in my fridge,” Louis mumbles into Harry’s skin. It’s much more efficient for him to eat at the hospital most of the time. Other times, when he’s not _at_ the hospital, Niall and Dana’s place is always open to him. As is Liam’s diner near the hospital. 

Harry laughs. “Yeah, your fridge is in a sorry state. Absolutely pitiful. I went to the nearest open shop and bought some things to put this together.” His hands slip under Louis’ shirt, run up and down his ribs and it makes Louis shiver. Harry kisses his cheek. “You deserve a home cooked breakfast on your birthday.” 

Louis looks up at his boyfriend, who gazes down at him with such unguarded affection. The green in his eyes is light and open, honest. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.” Not that Louis’ complaining, but he feels a tinge of guilt for Harry not being able to spend Christmas with his family at home. 

Harry shrugs. “I spoke to Fizzy about it. I thought it’d be a nice surprise and she said you’d like it, so I booked a flight. Didn’t think much about it, to be honest. It’s Christmas _and_ your birthday. I get to have you for both.” 

Louis spoke to his sister a week ago and she mentioned not a word of this to him. Not surprising, though. She and Have have become such good friends in the time they’ve known each other. Harry has basically won his entire family over. If Harry were anyone else, Louis would be jealous of him seeing his family more often than Louis does, but it just makes him happy. Knowing they all adore his boyfriend makes him happy. He says to Harry, “You know, I’m still on call later. At six.” 

That puts a frown on Harry’s face. “You didn’t ask for a day off on your birthday?” 

“Darling, I’m not nine. I’m _twenty-nine_ years old. They don’t really give days off for that.” 

“Well. Then you’re spending your day with me until then. And then I’ll come with you to the hospital and wait until you’re done.” 

This time, Louis laughs. His stomach growls loudly and he pulls away from Harry, turning instead to the lovely breakfast laid out for him. “I’d feel really bad if you’re just milling about the hospital. That’s fucking depressing.” 

Harry shrugs. “I’ll go hang out by the newborn area. They’re so precious.” 

“Sorry, love. You won’t be allowed there, but you can spend time with Dana. Maybe she’ll let you hear the baby’s heartbeat.” Louis takes a sip of his tea and lets out an exaggerated moan, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. “This is. So good. Oh, I really needed this.”

“Hey.” Harry’s voice is soft, disbelieving. When Louis opens his eyes, he finds Harry looking at him intently, curiously. In awe. He reaches out across the table and his hand brushes against Louis’ collarbones, fingers tugging at the chain that disappears under Louis’ shirt. “You’re wearing it.” 

Louis looks down at the silver ring hanging from the chain, balanced on Harry’s finger. He looks back at Harry, whose eyes have gone misty. “Of course, I’m wearing it. I thought I’d lose it every time I had to take it off to scrub, so I got a chain for it. Keep it close to me all the time.” _You’re always the closest to my heart._

Under the table, Harry’s ankles tangle with Louis’. Looking at Harry in his apartment, in his kitchen, Louis feels _happy._ Maybe he gets to have everything he thought might not be in the cards for him. Harry’s big green eyes, his kiss bitten lips, his hands still touching the skin of Louis’ chest — this is easy. It’s so easy. Louis picks up a strawberry from his French toast and taps it on Harry’s mouth; Harry’s tongue slips out and Louis drops the fruit on it. 

Louis slides his chair closer to the table, moves his leg forward until it’s pressed up against Harry’s, knee to knee. “I love you,” he says. 

Time slows for one heartbeat. It’s enough for Louis to see Harry’s face go from uncertain to radiant. His fingers curl around Louis’ chain and he leans across the table to press his lips against Louis’ brow bone. “I love _you._ And I’m — I’m happy.” 

Louis knows that’s all he needs. 

So when they end up in the shower together later or when they go to see Louis’ friends or when they walk around the park, it’s no surprise that Louis never stops feeling that warmth. With Harry’s hand in his, he feels it sinking into his bones. _Happiness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i.... dont know how to end things <3 find me on tumblr @raleighritchie if u want !!


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